


Lessons in Power

by falindis



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angband, Bondage, Bottom Melkor, Dom/sub, Dominant Mairon, Drinking, Drunk Sex, Flogging, M/M, Master/Servant, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Dagor Bragollach, Power Play, Rough Sex, angbang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:07:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28960686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falindis/pseuds/falindis
Summary: Although occasional revelry was allowed, one could never be too shy with a whip. Some did not agree with his methods – they had even taken up to calling him Gorthaur, the Cruel. Yet where others saw cruelty, Mairon saw discipline.After the victory at the Battle of Sudden Flame, a night of revelry in Angband ends in Melkor’s bedroom. What follows is a lesson of compliance for the master – and one of power for the servant.
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 9
Kudos: 62





	Lessons in Power

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this came from a fanart by an-radish on tumblr, who had drawn drunk horny sadist Mairon. After reblogging that I got several requests for a dom! Mairon fic so I just had to write this! It's not a dynamic that comes naturally to me since I hc Melkor as very dom and Mairon as very sub (although I do see Mairon as a power bottom), so this was certainly a challenge, and I hope I stayed true to the characters!
> 
> Note:  
> Contains some drunk BDSM, which is not something I would actually advise. It's consensual, although one can argue against that since both characters are drunk. Regardless, I'm not here to give you a moral lecture, I just write smut. 💁 If you're here only for the PwP, skip to the three stars (***).
> 
> Hope you enjoy! ♥

“A toast”, Melkor’s voice rang loud and clear across the throne room of Angband, which had been filled to the brim by reveling orcs, balrogs and thralls. “To our victory!”

The entire room raised their glasses as one, their voices like a clap of thunder. The sound sent a shudder through the lieutenant of Angband, who was sitting at the table on Melkor’s right. Gothmog was at his left, and from them, in descending order the high commanders and troop leaders. Even at an occasion like this, everything was impeccably orderly, and the sight filled Mairon with prideful satisfaction.

This was why they had won. When the elves were a scattered band of warmongering tribes, the forces of Angband were a flawless, perfectly oiled killing machine. For most part, they wasted no time quarreling among their own kind. Thanks to their joint efforts, the Siege of Angband had finally been broken, and the plains of Ard-Galen filled with sudden flame.

Still, it was a delicate balance. Although occasional revelry was allowed, one could never be too shy with a whip. Some did not agree with his methods – they had even taken up to calling him _Gorthaur,_ the Cruel. Yet where others saw cruelty, Mairon saw discipline. Even now, his every gesture oozed control, from his rigid posture to his stern frown.

“Loosen up, lieutenant”, Gothmog suddenly spoke on his left, making Mairon flinch. “This is a feast. No need to look like you have your mace lodged up your ass.”

On his side, Melkor responded with rumbling laughter. “Gothmog is correct. Your frown is deeper than the pits of Utumno. Have a drink.”

“Your wish is my command, my lord”, Mairon said. He took a sip out of his goblet, then pushed it away. He had never been that fond of wine – or alcohol in general, to that matter. It clouded his judgement, made his thoughts go foggy. And there was nothing than he detested more than losing control.

“You do not like it?” Melkor asked, noting his frown. “That can be fixed. Servant! Fetch us a bottle or something else.”

Mairon had no time to protest before the servant already scurried away with a “yes, master.” A moment later, the servant returned with a black glass bottle sloshing with an unknown liquid. The servant popped the cork open, then poured some onto Melkor’s goblet and tasted it first to ensure, that it was not poisoned. To Mairon’s surprise, the liquid was perfectly clear in color, and had a strong, almost piercing smell. Mairon scrunched his nose in disapproval.

“What is this awful concoction?”

“Awful?” Gothmog asked in shock. “You’ve just been graced with the drink of the gods! Firewater, we balrogs call it. Try it, and you’ll know why.”

Mairon had his doubts. He had no desire to poison himself with whatever horrid slops the balrogs had brewed in their pits. Yet Melkor and Gothmog seemed to pay no mind, downing the drink at once. The servant immediately poured them another.

 _Well._ Mairon raised the glass to his mouth. _How terrible can it be?_

The drink burned on its way down. Although Mairon was a being of flame, he was surprised by the heat it conjured both in his throat and his stomach. He let out a spluttering cough, which was not the slightest aided by Gothmog’s “encouraging” pat on his back. The balrog smirked.

“Not too bad, isn’t it? Have another.”

The servant poured more. Mairon sighed. Gothmog was going to pay for this.

The second drink did not taste as bad as the first. Mairon quickly got used to the burning sensation and strong taste, and this time he could focus more on the warmth slowly flooding his belly. After a while it reached his limbs as well, making his fingers tingle and body feel light. His shoulders relaxed, and only then did he realize how tense they had been.

 _Control,_ he reminded himself, _do not allow it to get to your head._

The thought, however, was quickly dissipated as one of the orc captains stood up, goblet in hand, raising it towards the center of the table.

“I wish to propose a song”, the orc said. “To the glory of Angband!”

“A song!” another orc pitched in. “For of our lord Melkor!”

“And lieutenant Mairon!”

Suddenly the orcs were bashing their fists and goblets on the table, loudly chanting the names of their masters. The balrog table soon joined in as well, adding Gothmog’s name to the chant, roaring and belching spits of fire. Next to Mairon, Melkor wore a sharp-toothed grin, while Gothmog pounded his fist in the air in excitement.

Although this revelry would normally have made Mairon cringe, now, he did not find himself thinking so. Instead, he was smiling as well. He found his leg tapping to the rhythm below the table as the orcs broke into song about the Battle of Sudden Flame. Some even went so far as to enact parts of it, such as the charge of the dragons and the flight of the elves. Screams of mock-terror erupted as a few orcs pretended to be Noldor set on flame. Mairon made several mental notes on the things he saw – how well he could use these kind of skills of pretend to his advantage in the next battle.

But mostly, he only enjoyed. He allowed the servant to pour himself a third drink, then a fourth. Some voice in the back of his head still scolded him for his carelessness, yet another reminded him, that he, too, was allowed to relax. As the song finally reached its crescendo, praising Melkor, Mairon and Gothmog for their brilliant leadership, Mairon found his eyes wondering to his master. Melkor was relishing in the praise, practically drinking it in, whereas Gothmog brushed it off with a smile. The Silmarils burned bright on Melkor’s forehead, almost blinding against the sleek dark of his hair. Mairon found himself fascinated on the small details in Melkor’s face – the way the light caught on his chin and sharp cheekbones, the slight wrinkles in the corners of his dark eyes. They were a void that seemed to suck Mairon in, and he found himself sinking deeper… and deeper…

“You are staring, lieutenant”, Melkor noted. “Is there something wrong?”

Mairon had to physically restrain himself not to fall over to Melkor’s lap right there and then. Instead, he indulged only in a light touch on his master’s shoulder. The words fell from Mairon’s tongue, uncontrollably, like a waterfall.

“I simply wished to gaze upon your magnificence, my lord.”

Melkor’s expression remained mostly unmoving, but the slight twitch of his mouth gave him away. Yet, he did not allow the game to proceed further. He soon became preoccupied with Gothmog, who was narrating a vivacious retelling of the events of the past battle. Mairon listened as well, but did not take his hands off his master. They traveled onward, as if of their own accord, trailing their path down Melkor’s bicep, then onto his side. There was a pleasant buzzing in Mairon’s head now, a dullness, as if he was floating comfortably in warm water. And another new sensation, which grew more urgent by the moment.

He was hard. Painfully so.

Mairon felt his face flush hot and red. For a moment he considered fleeing the feast there and then, but if he stood up, the entire hall would see his unbelievably obvious arousal. Instead he thanked all the demons of the Void for the high table and the thickness of his robes, and focused on sitting still, trying to shake the feeling off.

Yet, he found it to be almost impossible. The heat in his groin was close to unbearable, and Melkor was _right there._ So close, and his for the taking. Mairon wondered, whether he could allow his fingers to wonder lower, beneath his master’s robes, to take him into his hand and pleasure him there and then—

“Careful, lieutenant”, Melkor stopped him with his hand, his tone silky in Mairon’s ear. “There is no return from the path you have chosen.”

“I don’t care”, Mairon said, his breath hot on Melkor’s neck. “I want to have you. _Need_ to have you.”

“To have me?” Melkor raised his brows. “A bold assumption that _you—”_

Mairon silenced him with a kiss.

Melkor let out a surprised moan, but did not pull away. Instead, he parted his mouth for his lieutenant, allowing Mairon full access. Mairon felt his cock twitch at the act, and he pushed onward, digging his fingernails onto Melkor’s skin. As if dragged by some invisible force, Mairon felt himself pulled towards his master. He could not think, could not breathe, all that was this – he was falling, falling…

Suddenly Mairon was aware of something. It had become quiet. Very quiet. He opened his eyes and pulled backwards, and found the entire table was staring at them. He blushed, wine-red.

“What are you staring at?” Mairon snapped. “Get back to your business!”

Slowly, the chatter around them resumed, although many still stared. Melkor’s eyes were dark with want.

“My, my, lieutenant”, Melkor hummed. “You are in a feisty mood today.”

“Shut up”, Mairon said. He no longer had the patience for any of this foolishness. Disregarding the stares and what Melkor said, he stood up and pulled his master with him, beginning to drag him towards their quarters.

To Mairon’s surprise, Melkor did not protest. He probably realized that the party would do just fine without him.

***

The trip through the halls of Angband felt endless. Now, that Mairon was no longer sitting still, the state of his intoxication came clear. The walls and floors spun around him, and he kept on stumbling on his own feet. Melkor was the only thing still keeping him standing – and even his steps felt unsteady. This was the price of taking a form of flesh. The gains and losses that came with it.

Having reached the bedchamber, Mairon wasted no time. He flung the doors open, and once they had passed behind them, Mairon pounced on his master and practically threw him against the wall. Melkor groaned at the impact, sharp canines flashing, as Mairon pinned his hands beneath his own.

“You are drunk”, Melkor said, and Mairon could smell the firewater on his breath.

“So are you. This is all your fault”, Mairon groaned, furiously undoing Melkor’s clothes and throwing the clinking garments unceremoniously on the floor. “You will pay for this…”

“Pay?” Melkor raised an eyebrow. “You understand who you are speaking to.”

“I do”, Mairon answered, as he breathed a line of heat on Melkor’s exposed neck. “I don’t care.”

At that, Melkor’s eyes darkened. Mairon recognized this look – it was the same lustful gaze Melkor had given him back in the throne room. Could it be that Melkor indeed was _turned on_ by this?

“You’ve dared to disrespect your lieutenant”, Mairon prodded carefully as he grinded his knee against Melkor’s exposed groin. “That is a corporeally punishable offense.”

Melkor lifted his chin upwards: an invitation. “Then punish me, _lieutenant.”_

Mairon could not believe what he was hearing. What was _happening._ In their relationship Mairon was always the servant, Melkor the master. But that was not all Mairon was. Melkor had taught Mairon how to take initiative, and it was high time that Mairon showed what he had learned.

“Very well”, he spoke, and his tone was full of command. “Get on your knees.”

After a moment’s pause, Melkor obeyed.

“You know what to do.”

Melkor eyed Mairon from between his dark eyelashes. “Do I? Use your words, lieutenant. Do not be coy.”

Mairon bit his lip. Why was he so nervous? He had wanted this. _Melkor_ wanted this. Besides, it did not have to mean anything. Melkor might not even remember it in the morning.

“Well? I await your command.”

 _To the Void with this,_ Mairon decided. At that moment he discarded the Mairon he had been for Melkor – Mairon the Admirable, a timid creature of Almaren, a bird caught in Aulë’s cage. He crushed it beneath his heel, allowing the prey to be consumed by the predator within him. Now, he was Gorthaur the Cruel, the monster his enemies would make him. And his servants.

“Suck my cock”, he ordered. “And be quick about it. I loathe waiting.”

Melkor’s laugh was an indulgent rumble, a flash of too-sharp teeth, as his hands found the folds in Mairon’s robes and pushed them aside. He was not gentle – he never was – but that was what Mairon wanted. He was not made of glass. And neither was Melkor.

“Eru Almighty”, Mairon cried out, as Melkor’s cool fingers wrapped around his hardened shaft, skin on bare skin. He then laughed – Eru had very little to do with this – but Mairon liked to think that somewhere up there, he was watching.

As if Melkor’s hands on his cock could not be unholy enough, his mouth was sacrilege of the highest kind. Mairon’s shaft was engulfed in hot, wet heat, and he threw his head backwards and drew a hissing breath through his teeth. Melkor began to work his way up and down his length, three of his fingers wrapped around the base as he variated between suckling and licking the head. Mairon’s hisses turned to pants, and he wrapped his hands into Melkor’s hair. He allowed Melkor to work at his own pace for a moment – a sinful drag of lips and tongue – until he tightened his grip and held Melkor in place as he began to fuck his mouth.

 _“Ah”,_ Mairon gasped, utterly fascinated at Melkor’s compliance, the way he allowed Mairon to slide his cock all the way in, and back out – _“ahh, ah, hhhhh—”_ the smooth glide of Melkor’s lips and tongue against his whole length, and the wet, sloppy sounds of Melkor’s mouth as Mairon rammed his shaft down the willing throat, again and again –

_“Fuck!”_

Mairon had to pull out before he spilled there and then. His cock slid out of Melkor’s mouth, ropes of saliva glistening between the head and Melkor’s lips. The sight itself was erotic enough to make Mairon’s entire body quiver. He had to control himself. It he spilled now, he would not be sure whether he could get hard again, in the state he was.

For a moment the room spun again, and Mairon tightened a fist in Melkor’s hair to anchor himself onto the ground. He drew a few deep breaths to gather himself. _Control._

“What comes next”, Melkor asked, dragging his dark tongue along his wet lips, “my lord?”

“Your hands”, Mairon managed – he still had trouble finding his words – “I want them bound.”

“Then do it.”

Mairon took a step back to the bedside drawer, finding a length of chain he had often felt around his own wrists. With surprisingly steady fingers, he wrapped it around Melkor’s hands.

“You know I could break these bonds, if I wanted.”

“Be quiet.” Mairon gave the chain a sharp tug, pulling Melkor along with it towards the bed. “Let me have at least some semblance of control.”

Melkor was quiet, but the smile on his lips was enough to spark Mairon’s ire. “You should learn to control your glee. Perhaps I should have you flogged?”

“If you must, lieutenant.”

That sealed the deal. Mairon’s hand dug into the drawer for a second time, wrapping around the familiar weight of a leather paddle. “Ten lashes, to start with. That should teach you your lesson.”

Melkor’s grin widened.

“Fifteen, then?” Mairon raised a brow. “Very well. Count with me. And – you shall not spill until I say so. I will decide, when you can or cannot come.”

“Very well, lieutenant.” Melkor leaned his bound hands on the bed, and the chain gave a rattle. He then arched his back, spread his legs.

The first strike lashed out. “I’m not hearing you count.”

“One”, Melkor gritted from between his teeth. Mairon did not give him time to catch his breath before he struck him again. “Two.”

 _Strike._ “Three.” Mairon’s hand tightened around the paddle. His grip was laxer than he was used to, for in this state, the strength and control of his body was limited. Yet he managed to strike true, although with less force than he wanted to. “Four. Five. Six.” Mairon varied between evenly timed spanks with pauses in between, and consecutive strikes that made Melkor’s neck arch and body flinch. Still, Melkor counted each one of them. “Seven. Eight. Nine.”

“You’re enjoying this”, Mairon noted as he struck Melkor for the tenth time, “aren’t you? Makes your cock hard.”

“Hhhhh”, Melkor hissed – he did not reply otherwise, simply kept on counting. But his body was betraying him. This was what Melkor looked like when he was doing this to _Mairon._ Perhaps it was not a matter of who held the whip, as long as it was being held.

The remaining five strikes came as an unrelenting torrent, fast and continuous without room to catch a breath. At the final two Melkor struggled to keep up with the pace, but he managed to count all. Afterwards, Mairon tossed the flogger on the floor, taking a step back to breathe – and to admire his handiwork.

Melkor lay twitching on the bed, drops of sweat shining on his granite skin. His beaten cheeks were dark and swollen, and his erect cock hung heavy in between his legs, twitching and dripping precum. His head was tilted slightly to the side, mouth hanging open, dark strands of hair caught on a cheekbone and a glistening lip. He looked utterly wrecked, violated in a way that Mairon had never seen him – in a way Melkor had never shown _anyone,_ and this knowledge alone was almost enough to bring Mairon to completion.

But no. Not yet.

“You have taken your punishment well. But there is still one final lesson to be learned.”

Melkor’s breath came quick and shallow, deepening into a sharp inhale as Mairon caressed his abused skin. Still, he did not ask Mairon to stop. He simply spread his legs wider.

“The oil is in the bottom drawer”, Melkor instructed. Already at this simple touch, his voice was shaking. Mairon could tell that he was close. Just to humor himself, Mairon lowered his hand in between Melkor’s legs, ghosting his fingers along his master’s hard shaft. A shudder ran through Melkor’s body, his cock arching towards the touch. Smiling, Mairon drew his hands away and reached towards the drawer and uncorked the flask of oil, lathering his fingers generously.

“Greedy”, he whispered, leaning closer to lick a line of fire along Melkor’s neck. His oiled hand massaged Melkor’s buttocks, teasing at his entrance. “How long can you last, I wonder? One thrust? Two?”

“Just… get to it.”

“Not only greedy, but also insolent.” Mairon shoved two fingers inside his master, harshly, craning them upwards until Melkor groaned at the sensation. “It appears you have learned nothing at all.”

Melkor grunted at each thrust of Mairon’s fingers, steadily pumping in and out. “I apologize, lieutenant.”

“Master”, Mairon corrected, adding a third finger, increasing his pace. “I command you. I _own_ you. Do you understand?”

“Yes”, Melkor inhaled deeply, pausing, as if to prepare himself. “Master.”

Mairon bit his lip. The entire room seemed to shake again, and not only due to his intoxication. As if something far larger than him had suddenly shifted from place, perhaps irreparably.

But perhaps this change had been inevitable, all along.

“Good”, Mairon said, pulling his fingers out, then oiling himself up. He lined up at Melkor’s entrance, teased him for a moment. Slid his cock between Melkor’s cheeks, but did not quite push in. Melkor grinded his hips at the touch.

And then – _“ah!”_ Mairon’s shaft was engulfed by tight-hot heat, a sensation unlike anything he had ever felt. He could not breathe. He could not _think._ All that existed was the pressure around his cock, the sensation of being one with Melkor, closer than ever before.

The rest was instinctive. The hands that Mairon wrapped around Melkor’s hips, as he begun to thrust slowly in and out of the dark Vala. The smooth roll of his hips, not unlike the way he moved when riding Melkor’s cock himself. Beneath him, Melkor trembled, obviously at his limit, grunts now turned to groans and heavy breaths. The bed creaked. The chains around Melkor’s hands rattled. Mairon kept on thrusting, deeper, tilting his hips to get a better angle, one that made Melkor cry out his name.

“Do you want to come?” Mairon asked him as his hand found its way into Melkor’s hair, making a fist around it, then _pulling,_ dragging his master – his _servant_ – closer, and Melkor’s neck arched upward, mouth and eyes opening at the sensation. “Speak.”

“Yes”, Melkor grunted. His half-lidded gaze was dark with desire. “Yes, master.”

Mairon grinned. He could see it. He could _feel_ it. The way Melkor’s passage clenched around him, vise-like, the quiver of muscles and the quickness of breath. Mairon was not far, either. Melkor simply had to hold on a little longer.

“You shall come when I come”, Mairon said. He took his hand to Melkor’s cock, then pressed three fingers around his base, tightly. “Together.”

“Together”, Melkor hissed.

Mairon slammed his hips against Melkor. Once, twice, until he lost count, until his orderly thrusts turned into an erratic pounding, until he felt the cock in his hand pulse, the clench around his own shaft almost unbearable.

“Now”, he cried out, and came.

Melkor’s groan was loud enough to make Mairon’s head rattle. The sensation consumed him, a shudder that ran from his skull to his spine and onto his cock, then coalescing onto a river of pleasure. He and Melkor came together, jet after jet of hot release, each pulse making Melkor tighten around Mairon and milking him further into completion.

They rode out the waves together, until they fell onto the bed in a shuddering, boneless mess. Tired and breathless, stained in sweat and come. Carefully, Mairon undid the chains around Melkor’s hands, then tossed them onto the floor, clattering.

Mairon’s strength was spent. Yet, before allowing oblivion to consume him, he pulled Melkor closer, onto an embrace. With his last strength, he dug his fingernails onto Melkor’s back, scratching burning lines across the skin, _under_ it: marking Melkor’s soul as his own.

”Now everyone’s going to know that you’re mine”, he breathed.

Melkor smiled against his lips. “They already know.”

*

The following morning, Mairon woke up alone.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, for him to understand where he was.

Dark stone walls. Black sheets. Blue sconces on the wall.

Melkor’s room. But how he got there, he did not remember. His head felt heavy, and a sharp pain throbbed in the back of his skull. His throat felt like a wasteland. A faint, acrid taste stung on his tongue.

 _How did I get here?_ he pondered for a moment, recalling the night. A feast, yes. Reveling, singing and dancing – drinking – the awful burn of Gothmog’s liquor on his tongue.

Then, Melkor. Hands on bare skin, tongues intertwined. Lights and shadows. He distantly remembered following Melkor through the corridors of Angband, but after that… it was all a blur…

He had overstepped himself, certainly. But he could get over it. He still had work to do.

With a groan, Mairon got up, then focused on channeling healing power into his body. It took some effort, but he managed to get rid of the headache, and the strange strain in his arm. His memories, however, did not return. He quickly made himself look presentable and made his way onto the throne room, red hair and cape flashing behind him.

Once he arrived at the throne room, he became aware of the fact that there were eyes on him.

And not only a few pairs. _Every single one_ of them. All of Melkor’s balrogs and orc captains. Gothmog, with a teasing glint of his eye. And at last, Melkor, who _bowed his head_ when Mairon entered. That sight itself almost made Mairon stop clean in his tracks. Since when did Melkor _bow_ to anyone?

“Mairon”, Melkor grinned, and there was a strange tone to his speech. Not dismissive – the opposite. Admiring. _Reverent,_ even. “So glad you could grace us with your presence.”

“Master.” Mairon made his way to the foot of the throne, getting down on one knee. Yet, Melkor simply shook his hand, demanding him to stand. As he did so, Mairon became aware of the faint red marks on Melkor’s wrists, flashing from between his gloves and his robes.

“There is no need for that”, Melkor said. His eyes were dark, glistening with unspoken desires. _What in the name of Eru happened last night?_ “Lieutenant.”

At those words, Mairon thought he could hear another title being used. One he only used of Melkor.

It had to be a dream, of course. His imagination. This was Melkor. Master of the Fates of Arda.

Yet, somewhere deep inside Mairon still knew that it was real.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I appreciate all comments and kudos. ♥


End file.
